Life of Sara
by Gage93
Summary: Christmas, season 6.  Immediately follows Life of Grissom, so I would suggest any interested readers to read or re-read that one first.


**Disclaimer: **Again, just borrowing

_Immediately follows Life of Grissom_

**Life of Sara**

The rain was still beating against the window, whipping around in the wind outside. Aware only of her, and no longer of the sound of the storm, he stood across from her, one hand softly grasping her arm, the other letting a finger twirl around a strand of hair just to the right of her eye. She was smiling and the softness in her expression, in her features, had him drawing a breath. It was in that moment he realized how deeply he was in love with her.

There hadn't been a moment where he'd stopped to contemplate what was happening between them. He'd drifted through the relationship so far, in fact, trying not to think about it. The fear that had held him back in the beginning and on, was still present, preventing him from reflecting on what it meant to love and to fall in love. He wasn't even sure he was still falling in love, only that emotion, that feeling, was already present, growing deeper and only now, finally acknowledged. It was the gift of Christmas, and of warmth, the way she let him clutch her hand and the way she lent her silent support. It was her arms wrapped around him, the vibration of her chest as she chuckled at the most comical and ridiculous scenes from _Life of Brian_, drawing him into a world of love and laughter. It was the way she pleaded for him to return to bed, to lie with her and warm her, and the way she'd forsaken the opportunity to remain warm and cozy by wrapping her naked self, so elegantly, in his sheets, and rising out of bed to bring him into her embrace when the remnants of his dark thoughts from earlier in the day gave him another moment's pause.

With her now in his arms, the remnants of those thoughts disappeared. Standing with her, he felt at peace. For awhile they could stand, hold each other, be and exist and breathe. His hand slid down her arm, the other in its own freefall, until both landed softly on her waist and he drew her to him. She shivered slightly and he ran his hands up and down her spine, the cotton smooth beneath his palms, collecting above them when his hands glided upwards. The rain continued to thump upon the window, the only sound he could hear apart from her short, gentle breaths. He listened, the measure and cadence both of her breath and the beat of the rain important, drawing him in. As he listened, he wondered if he could measure a life by the rains. His life. Her life. The tapestry of the two, intertwined. Tribes in Africa used to measure the years by the rains, so why not a life? He wondered, perhaps, if Sara had ever given thought to measuring her life by the rains. Growing up outside of San Francisco, she must have seen a few.

There was a gentle rain, giving way to haze and fog, a haze and fog that would remain with him for several years, that day in San Francisco when he first met Sara. He had looked at Sara through that haze for so long, he'd only recently been able to see his way through it. It had been pouring rain the day he watched a man hold a knife to her throat, the threat of losing her never more real, spurring him to finally act on his desires. Now, it was a hard rain, the underlying feeling of desperation surrounding the holidays, and he, existing with she, in the shelter of his home, and there would be more rains to come. The day may not prove to be a turning point in their relationship, but it was for him. It was a growth, an understanding on his part, and he would never be the same.

Hands still resting softly on her waist, he turned her and began stepping backwards, pulling her with him until he could feel the bed behind his knees. Sitting down, he opened his legs, giving her space to step between them, and he gazed up at her. His hands slid to her sides and then to the hem of the sheet, playing softly over the cotton and opening the sheet to reveal her, the stunning figure, the delicate lines, all that had remained hidden. His forehead fell to her stomach, his slow breaths landing on her navel. His hands pulled at her waist, bringing her closer. His face tilted up, nose dragging over her skin, lips kissing as the grazed. He felt Sara shift, stepping out from his legs and then around them, her knees drawing his legs together. Hands on his shoulders, she raised herself onto him, straddling him and tilting her head down to kiss him. Lifting his face, he met her kisses with his own, deep and reaching. His hands found her waist again, this time beneath the sheet, landing on her smooth skin. Minutes passed and they continued to kiss, Sara above him. Her hand slid from his shoulder to his chest, applying gentle pressure. He lay back, shifting more fully onto the bed. Both hands now on his chest, Sara broke the kiss and stared down at him. He watched her above him, his breaths coming in heavy. As her hands curled over his waistband and she leaned forward again, he drew in a breath and whispered, "Be gentle." Her smirk slowly died, changing into a look of question, her eyes studying him, his vulnerability surely on display. From her tender nod, her growing smile and the tears in her eyes, he knew that she understood how far reaching his words were meant to be, what he was asking of her, what he couldn't and didn't have to say. _Tread softly on my heart._

Afterwards, he shifted their bodies, laying her on her back and lifting himself on one elbow so that he could gaze down at her. They would have to get up soon. Sara would want to go in early and see if she could get anywhere on hers and Warrick's case. He would go in early as well and sift through paperwork or look over open cases until shift began because he did not want to remain at his house alone. Before they went in though, he wanted to make her dinner and give her the Christmas gift he'd finally settled for. They still had a few minutes though, he decided, and he stared down at her, his finger tracing over her cheek bone.

He'd spent Christmas's in the past with far more celebration, more gifts, more decorations, more life and more sound, despite those Christmas's having been spent with a deaf mother. There had been tradition, and ritual, family, music and a host of other warm memories, but never before had Christmas felt so right. Drawing Sara closer to him, warming her with hands and arms as she let out gentle shivers, Grissom thought back to her in the break room, to her eyes and all they held. There had been fear and uncertainty, hesitancy, sadness, compassion, but also love. He knew she had waited for some kind of hint, a clue or a signal, to let her know if he wanted her with him that morning, and how could she wonder? And he remembered her childhood, the uncertainty of living with a unstable, unbalanced mother with a not yet diagnosed mental illness, the fear that her father's frustrations and misunderstanding of her mother and her mother's psychosis would disrupt any quiet she might find, the initial belief in the normalcy of violence, the passing around from one house to another, the constant questions about finding a home and possibly having a reason to celebrate one day.

He wondered what Sara's Christmases were like as a child. Did her mother, in her lucid moments, make her hot cocoa, and put marshmallows in it? Did she look forward to the day, or did she fear it? Was Christmas a moment of temporary reprieve, a day of hope and love and family? Or, did Christmas highlight the family's fears and failures, or her mother's paranoia, and did it generate more desperation, like it had for the victim of the suicide he'd investigated the night before? Did it bring about more anger and more violence because of those perceived failures, or perceived illusions? Was it a day that highlighted everything that was wrong in their house, a day of blame and recriminations? He didn't know. He didn't know and it hurt not to. He thought of asking, but he didn't want the question to mar the peace or lead Sara to think that he was making what little effort he was making because of her past. He didn't want to show her Christmas or to make up for a childhood that may never have contained one. Their Christmases together would be spent discovering it together, moving forward rather than looking back. This was about them, him and her, the rain outside cleaning the slate once again.

Below him, Sara had her eyes closed to his finger's light grazing. There was a soft smile adorning her face. She looked so lovely and so at peace. Gazing down at her he was in awe of her, of her love for him and what a precious gift it was to be given that love by this woman, this one woman. Leaning down, he gave her a light kiss. "Why don't you have a shower? I'll make us some dinner."

Sara nodded and Grissom pushed himself up, sitting on the bed, his movements throwing the sheet off her once again. Sara smirked and reached past him, stealing the sweatshirt he was about to put on. Shaking his head, he felt her lips land quickly on his, the smirk still present and now embedded on his mouth. He rose, pulling his sweats back on and walked over to the dresser, grabbing a different shirt and pulling it over his head.

He was just finishing dinner when Sara appeared, dressed for work. She approached him in the kitchen, coming to stand in behind him and glancing over his shoulder at the cheese sauce he was stirring. "Blessed are the cheese makers," she started and he smiled at the _Life of Brian_ line, his thoughts back to early in the morning, when she'd helped ease his soul with Monty Python therapy.

He was about to respond with the line about manufacturers of dairy products when Sara began again, stepping back from him. "Can I give you a hand?"

Grissom glanced back over his shoulder and shook his head. "It's ready. Have a seat and I'll bring it all out." He turned to regard her as she turned to the table. Nervous, he paused and watched her take in the setting, the poinsettia in the middle, serving as a centerpiece, wine glasses though neither would be drinking alcohol, and crimson red napkins, to match the poinsettia, folded in half and placed by each plate. It was about as much preparations as he'd been able to make in short time, the purchases last minute as the season had brought far too much work. The few decorations stood out in his home, looking odd and out of place, and they were barely sufficient to allow him to classify his house as decorated, but they were there, his nod to the holiday.

Sara sat at the table, her fingers playing with the napkin. He turned to his stove and could feel her eyes on him. He smiled, opening the oven and pulling out the nut roast. He set the roast before her, moving back into the kitchen to bring out the rest of the dishes, and then he sat across from her, staring at her and watching her stare back at him. A sheepish sort of smile crept up onto his face and he looked away, dishing himself up some steamed vegetables.

Not much was said during the meal and when one moved to talk, so did the other. While it would appear awkward to any outsiders, it was anything but. The silences were comfortable and the coincidental movements to speech, amusing. They laughed softly and drifted closer, waited for the other to speak before answering and then taking their turn. Throughout the meal, he watched her, taking her in as he would never allow himself to before. Sara, quietly content and at ease, unguarded, was most beautiful in these moments. Grissom swallowed each bite slowly, his eyes on her. That he could share this with her left him in awe.

A meal finished and work waiting, Grissom had one thing left to do before Sara left and he showered, readying for work. He cleared the table and gestured to the sofa. Waiting for her to sit, he disappeared into his room, pulling out his gift to her. It had taken him some time to shop for her, each gift seeming inadequate. He thought of a book, but that was what he'd given her every year he'd known her. He thought of a piece of jewelry, but quickly passed on that idea. He even thought of lingerie, but decided not to go there. In the end, he went back to the book, this year buying her two instead of the requisite one. It was inadequate, he knew, but these gestures were his weaknesses.

The books were hidden in his dresser, wrapped, but even beneath the wrapping, obvious. As he reached down to retrieve them, his eyes caught sight of something else, his sweatshirt. The sweatshirt, a Dodger's sweatshirt only a couple of years old, was a favorite of Sara's. She claimed to like wearing it only because it smelled of him. It would not be wrapped, but it would be given none-the-less and if, after having been laundered, she ever wanted it to smell of him, he'd gladly put it on for a couple of hours and gift it to her again.

Sara was waiting for him on the sofa, a gift in her hands, when he reemerged. Carrying the two books and the sweatshirt, he sat next to her, his thigh brushing against hers.

"Merry Christmas," she spoke quickly, handing him the gift. He handed her the gift wrapped books, still clutching the sweatshirt in his hand. The gift she'd handed him was shaped just as his, fairly small, rectangular, a book, just like he'd given her. He unwrapped it, smiled and thanked her, watching as she did the same. He thumbed through his book, stalling for time, for courage, and then took a deep breath. He held out the sweatshirt for her to take. "Here, this is also for you. It's not wrapped…or clean, but…" He stopped, his nerves keeping him from finishing.

Sara cocked her head and looked at him. "Your sweatshirt…" She paused for a moment. "Griss, it's your favorite."

He shrugged. So the sweatshirt wasn't all that old, he liked it far better on her. He liked that she felt comfortable enough to steal it, to wear it. "It's also yours. I want you to have it."

She reached for it slowly and he could see the reluctance in her eyes. Her fingers landed on it and she looked up at him. "You know I only like it because…"

"It smells like me. Anytime that smell fades from the shirt and you want it back…"

Sara's eyes began to glisten, the sparkle mixing in with her tears. He was giving her far more than a sweatshirt, but a part of him, entrance to his life. She did not have to question this any more. She deserved far more than he could give her, but he would not dwell on that. She was there, giving him the most precious gift, more precious because it given by her.

Her hand wrapped around the shirt and she leaned toward him, kissing him hard. "Thank you."

He nodded, pulling her to him. Though he'd already said it, the words seemed right, so he said it again. "Merry Christmas, Sara."

**A/N: **Merry Christmas.


End file.
